No bird sings within me, but waits for a soul
To unlock the cage of which it is accustomed.
Only the window gives us light,
Cascaded in shards upon my slow-beating heart.
In the darkness of night,
Your face is a vast terrain of shadow,
And when the light of the moon falls upon your cheeks,
Those eyes are Fire and water
Where feeling had no difference.
Magic and reality
Where neither existed.
And of all the birds, within all the beating hearts,
Those eyes would rest on mine;
A bird burdened with living;
Tattered wings without flight,
Broken beak without voice.
By strong hands alone will the lock be turned,
As he holds this bird in torment of affection,
waiting not for the glimmer of a key but for the mockingbird,
who climbs and claws from his body,
who will lift these bars, and sing in mimicking euphoria,
as his eyes cascade upon her own,
like birds of light gliding across a vast terrain of shadow.
Because your eyes alone
set this caged bird free.